Music writers are divine fools. Few of us possess the talent or ambition to seek success in this industry. Our fanatical love of the art drives us into oblivious endeavors. We haunt record stores, incur massive debt buying LPs, CDs and DVDs, and devour fanzines to feed our musical addictions. If that isn’t enough, we tap our computer keyboards to gain microseconds of emotional release profiling and reviewing artists adding 40 minutes of pleasure (or pain) to our empty, wasted lives.

Rolling Stone's critic and NPR commentator Mitch Myers feels our pain. His book, The Boy Who Cried Freebird, is a paean to musicians, fans, and especially unsung music writers, toiling in anonymity. It is like an extraordinary jam session, mixing fiction, biography, anecdotes and fantasy into a rhythmic nirvana that is as compelling as it is hilariously absurd.

Close your eyes, and imagine television character George Jefferson as a huge devotee of avant-garde rock. Can’t see it? Freebird features an interview with '60s and '70s guitarist Daevid Allen of Gong and Soft Machine fame. Allen relates an encounter with actor Sherman Hemsley, who allegedly brought him to Los Angeles for a concert. According to Allen, Hemsley’s house was part LSD lab, and had a darkened upstairs room where Gong’s first album Flying Teapot played continuously in a loop.

Myers writing resembles the freeform work of the late rock critic guru Lester Bangs in some places and gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson in others. There are heartfelt tributes to his colleagues, especially the neurotic Richard Meltzer, whose idiosyncratic style irritated editors who generally admired his work and, of course Bangs, considered a beacon for rock journalism in the late ‘60s and ‘70s. But Myers doesn’t stop there. He offers praise and scorn upon many of his personal icons, including Brian Eno, John Fahey, Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart, Terry Riley and Doug Sahm.

Myers fantasy work follows the exploits of his alter-ego, the everyman music fan Adam Coil. Did you ever want to know who the idiot is that yelled “Freebird” into each pause at concerts you attended? It was Adam. In The Boy Who Cried Freebird, Adam transcends time, going from a future age dominated by technical wizardry back to the '60s, riding on the back of Hell’s Angels founder Sonny Barger’s hog, and losing his virtue to hippie chick ‘Cinnamon Girl,' all while waiting to attend a Grateful Dead concert at the infamous Fillmore West. Its stories like these that make me believe Myers partook in some of George Jefferson’s homemade acid at one time.

Nevertheless, The Boy Who Cried Freebird is a delightful hodgepodge. Myers ponders and dissects the dependency cycle of all music fans while elucidating the reader on the minutiae of lives on the edge of stardom and those well past their prime. It is a brilliant look inside the vast underworld that belies all of us who have seen the needle and the damage done by an art that consumes us as we consume it. Meyers may be a fool for rock music, but his writing is certainly divine.